


on the tip of my tongue

by BitterlySpiteful



Series: Trickster [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Child Abuse, Gods, Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-07 07:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18868969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitterlySpiteful/pseuds/BitterlySpiteful
Summary: the Trickster god reigns, letting the world fall into disrepair. he has eaten the names of his siblings, and has become a recluse in his Jungle.But that's not this story. Mijah, a young girl growing up in the Jungle, has her whole life upended. She tries to make the best of it, at least. But that's hard, when she's met the last living god.





	1. come along

**Author's Note:**

> summary will eventually change.

Your Momma never gave you a name.

You think you understand why — after all, a name is _power_ in the Jungle. In the Tribe — but that doesn’t make it any less degrading.

“Girl,” she says, making you look up from your shoddy, self-made toy. “Where is supper?”

“I haven’t gotten it yet, Momma,” you say, shrinking back at her glare. You clutch the doll to your chest and stand, bowing slightly. “I will, Momma, I’ll get supper.”

“You better. You know your Pa is going to be hungry. You know how he gets when he’s upset. Go, before he beats both our asses.” She snorts and shakes her head, going back to carvign the spearhead in her palms. A pile sits next to her. Small, but it’s all the weaponry the Tribe will have until they go out to raid for more stones from the Qykysus Tribe.

You scamper off when she cracks her whetstone a bit too hard on the spearhead. You stop just outside the tent to bury your doll, just to make sure that the other two children won’t find it. They have their own toys, but they always end up stealing yours. This doll has lasted longer than the others, and you’ve grown attached.

Stopping again at the clearing, you pull your bandanna down from your forehead. The spiral wound above your nose _burns_ when it rubs against the cloth and you look down to find the brown and purple bandanna stained slightly with blood. Hissing, you reach up to run your fingers over the recent marking. It had scabbed over, but you must have pulled a scab off in your haste to grab the cloth.

Shaking your head at your own idiocy, you tie the bandanna around your face, covering your nose and mouth. Usually, the clearing that the Tribe lives in is safe from the spores. Outside of that, though...

Snatching up a fairly large stick, you pick your way into the thick foliage. The Jungle’s plants cling to you, as if wanting you to lay down for a while. Rest for a while.

But no! You are to get supper. That is what you are doing in the Jungle. That is what you are doing away from the Tribe. You repeat this, a mantra in your head, as you scamper up the tall trees and pull fruit from the branches. As you harvest, you think.

You think about your momma. You think about how she is always... _sad._  She doesn’t sing — not anymore. She used to, you think, back when you were _really_ little. But you’re seven now, and she hasn’t sung for years and years.

Maybe it’s because of Pa. Maybe it’s because he’s not _your_ Pa, but an imposter. This Pa swept in when the spores took your real one. You miss him. But you barely understand the concept of death, really. All those of old age go to sacrifice themselves to Trickster, and it is a time to rejoice. A signal that the Tribe is thriving. Why else would someone grow old, if they did not thrive in their time? 

You pause in your gathering to look out at the Jungle. The fungi are releasing their spores, now. They glitter in the darkness from the canopy. The glow is bright, pink and greens and blues. It dapples the trees and leaves and you always think that it’s breathtaking.

Your hand reaches up to the bandanna around your nose and mouth. Surely something so pretty can’t be _that_ dangerous...

But you shake your head and climb down the tree, wincing when a large splilnter catches on your bare foot. You drop the remaining way and land in a crouch on all fours, eyes peering around the darkness. 

The Nameless aren’t out yet. They normally don’t bother you — especially with the mark on your forehead, now — but you have to be sure. To get caught by one is...

You shudder and bolt, holding the fruit in your tattered shirt. You return safely and kneel in front of Momma to present the food you gathered.

She doesn’t look at you. “Pa is back,” she says quietly. A fresh bruise is already blossoming over her cheek, tainting the healing one a new purple. You swallow and resist the urge to hide by her legs, as you used to when you were younger.

She looks up when you don’t say anything. “Girl, did you hear me? He is back, and hungry. Go feed him.”

You nod and scuttle out of her tent, glancing around. And there he is, talking with one of the other women of the Tribe. There aren’t many. You’re the only girl child, and Momma is one of five women. Ten men, five women, three children. That’s all your Tribe has.

You go toward your Pa with your head down, and you hold out the fruit. You made sure they were all ripe, made sure to get the biggest ones. Made sure they were the best.

Only the best, for Momma and Pa.

He glances down at you and sneers, snatching one from you then returning to his conversation. You recognize the tone of voice he’s using — it’s similar to the one he uses with Momma when it’s nighttime — and you hurriedly leave before anything can escalate.

His barking words halt you. “Did I say you could leave?”

“No, Pa, I’m sor-sorry.”

“And did I say you could speak to me?”

He strieks you then, across the side of your head. You go tumbling to the ground, crying out and dropping the fruit. Your knee squishes one when you land on it. He gives you a kick to emphasize his next point. “Now you’re dropping all my shit. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry, Pa.” You don’t look up at him. You know better than to make eye contact with him. He grabs a fistful of your hair and jerks your head up, ripping the bandanna from your forehead. “Show some respect, Girl. Don’t you cover this up anymore, do you got that‽”

You wish he would breathe in the spores. You snarl at him and swat at his hand, snatching the bandanna back. You know open wounds are bad. His own spiral mark looks blothy and infected, though you know he got it a long, long time ago. Carved it in so many times that the different spirals of scars overlap, creating a horrible twister. It crinkles when he scowls.

Pain explodes in the side of your face when he hits you with a clsoed fist. Then in your side, and your stomach. You cough and roll and sob and try to run from him, but he grabs you by the ankle and drags you back, slinging you through the dusty ground. “You’re just like your fucking mother. Useless! I have half a mind to kill you now, and save us all the trouble.”

But when he raises his hand to hit you, you strike forward and sink your teeth into the flesh of his calf. He howls and kicks you away. And that’s the opening you need.

Forgetting the bandanna, you _run_. You botl through the small camp and break into the trees, and you keep running and running and running until you collapse, coughing.

Your lungs are rattling. You keep coughing, tears blurring your vision. When you’ve finally calmed, you take a ragged breath and look around. This part of the Jungle is unfamiliar to you. Spores float around you, like snow.

You sob. You know you won’t survive these spores. 

Your cries turn to coughs, and you spit fluids up onto the ground. Deciding you won’t just _die_ , you stagger to your feet, leaning heavily on a sapling next to you. It bends beneath your minimal weight. You bend with it, then shove off and continue further into the Jungle.

_Chitter Chitter._

You freeze, trying to hold back your coughing. When you look to your left, you _see_ it.

The Nameless used to be human, you think. But it’s grotesque; it’s flesh rotting away without its name to hold it together. It hasn’t noticed you yet, because it’s bashing its head against a tree trunk, making maggots and congealed blood splatter away.

Taking in a stuttering breath, you quietly continue on, tripping over your feet. You can’t move too fast — _prey runs_ , after all — but you make steady progress away from it.

But by then, the spores have gotten to your bloodstream. You feel woozy. Can’t keep moving. Stumbling more than walking, now. The trees are spinning around you.

You collapse.

And you lay there, breathing in poison. 

For a long time, you lay. The lights from the sky fade into darkness. You hear the Nameless chittering more, all around you, calling and crying for lost and eaten names.

Then a sound interrupts the Jungle’s and everything goes _still_.

You manage to lift your head and you see Him.

The Trickster God stares down at you, twined around his trees like a python. A behemoth among mortals. Tears silently run down your cheeks. His head twists upside down, and his three eyes regard you with what could only be called curiosity.

“God,” you whisper. It’s a title, or maybe it’s a question, or maybe it’s just the only word your mind can come up with. 

He laughs like the chittering things of the Jungle. And rightens his head. **What is your name, young-thing?** he asks, voice smooth, echoing and twisting. Your ears ring. 

You don’t answer him. You can’t. Your eyes slowly move up to his third eye. In it, you see... _everything_. 

Existence, creation, the end, and the beginning. The death of his siblings. How he ate their names. How he inherited them as a part of himself. How this is going to be the end of you.

Struck with a maturity that makes no sense for your age, you stand, fold your hands in front of you, and bow, and you say, “I have no name, my lord.”

 **Really,** he says, almost sounding impressed. Interested. When you nod, he laughs, and it rumbles through your bones like thunder. He lowers himself slightly, turning his head to regard you with one eye. It’s three times as large as you are. **Is that so, young-thing? Would you like a name?**

“No.” That, you can say with certainty.

He stares at you for a long moment, then rushes forward. His flat muzzle presses against you; it’s soft, like a mare’s, and you feel him suck in a deep breath through his nostrils. The air blows out cold, shoving your hair back from your head. He sniffs again, then leans back, as if contemplating something you shouldn’t understand. But you know.

You know, because you made eye contact with that third one, the spiral, on his forehead. The crown of the other gods’ Marks rattles when he shakes his head. **Interesting** , he says, as if he’s made up his mind.

With that, he turns. Spores steam out from his skin and scales and fur, clouding the air. You breathe them in and they are sour. You cough.

His tail snaps around you, pulling you from the ground. He drops you between his shoulder blades. Like that, he’s off, snapping into the air. His wings tilt him back and forth, dodging trees at a speed no mortal could ever hope to accomplish.

You sit on his back, dazed, confused, mind foggy from the spores.

 **Well, girl,** he says as he flies, **Since you have no name, you are safe from the likes of I. How does that sound, hm?**

The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop yourself. “Exhilerating,” you mumble, head lolling. “Interesting.”

 He laughs when you echo his word from earlier. It is a chittering sound, not like the thunder, but more like dumping wet river stones ina fire and watching them pop. 

“What is your name?” You ask. With all the knowledge you saw in that third eye, that is the one thing that escaped you. He halts. Just- stops. You slam into the back of his neck and when you pull back, blood is dripping down your nose. Your vision swims as you look up to see his grinning face looming over you. His teeth gleam in the light of the spores. Your fingers clutch his fur tighter. It’s like spun silk in your hands.

**I do not have one, anymore.**

“Oh,” you say, feeling like you have been drugged. Your limbs won’t respond anymore.

You feel sad for him. To not have a name — that is something you know well. Maybe, you understand why Momma is always sad. Did she meet him, too? Does she know things no mortal should have the right to know? Did she look into his third eye and see the Void, as well?

“Am I to die?” you whisper, coughing blood.

He does not respond. He does not need to. He turns and continues on. The Jungle passes in a blur, but you do not notice. Your head is muddled. Foggy. You think you are going to die. No mortal should know All, and ride on God’s shoulders, and breathe the toxins of the Jungle, and not die.

The trees break and you hear a screech. You don’t duck. Something yanks you from his back and slams you into the ground. You look up to find the dead eyes of another god, a Nameless husk, boring into your own.

But then Trickster is there, shoving his once-was-brother away. You look around, swaying, to find all five gods staring at you. They are Nameless, now. Almost dead. Rotting like the other chittering things in the Jungle.

Trickster picks you up carefully in sharp talons and soft pawpads. He coils into loops and sets you in the middle, and stares down at you. You realize you are in the Heart of the Jungle, a clearing big enough to house three of the god you are sitting on.

You look up at him evenly, not afraid of the third eye anymore. You notice that your vision is clear and sharp. You reach up with tingling hands to find that there is a third eye of your own, on your forehead. It has replaced your Mark.

He presses his muzzle to you again and sniffs. You giggle slightly, feeling the effects of the spores lift away slowly. Almost as if he’s breathing them in.

You press your nose and lips to ihs muzzle and inhale deeply and-

Oh.

You can... _smell_. **_Taste_**. His name. It’s nothing that words can form. It’s something else entirely, something hungry and gaping, and tasting of ash and dead things. You find that you can differentiate the names that he has eaten. There are too many flavors and scents and it overwhelms you.

He pulls back, then, staring at you.

You know his Name.

“Oh,” you say, quietly. He nods as if expecting this. You inhale some of his name, and feel trickery and cunningness squirm its way into your veins. You breathe out spores, like the ones trickling from the corners of his mouth, and the piece of his name is gone.  

You take a stuttering breath and then slump forward. The last thing you see is the fine fur of the god, and then the world is black.


	2. aftermath

**Wake up.**

You open your eyes to the sky above you. You take a breath and your lungs are clear.

Sitting up, you glance around, and you find that you're on the very outskirts of the Jungle, yet still in it. You look up to find Trickster there, hanging in the trees. His claws dig deep gouges in the bark. You gasp and scramble to your feet, stumbling backward. Without the spores hazing your mind, the terror finally rushes into you, making you tremble and shake.

He laughs at this. But his smile falls flat. You stare at him, your new eye seeing something more twisted than what your other two do. His true form is mangled and twisted, flesh hanging off his bones in ribbons and strips. Black sludge oozes from his lips and teeth and he has on a permanent snarl, like a rabid dog gone mad. His eyes are two blazing suns, so bright you have to close your third eye so it doesn't get blinded.

And the moment it's closed, the draconic form stares at you. Trickster dips his head and grins, and there is no trace of gore and sludge. His scales are smooth and shiny; his fur reflects the little light that hits him.  **Leave** , he says,  **And do not come back.**

"Where do I go?" you whisper, horror making your words tremble. He twists his head back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like the chittering Nameless creatures you hear moving around you.

**Anywhere but my Jungle. If you return, I will kill you.**

That is a promise, you realize. As if it's written in stone, burning in your soul. If you return, he will  _kill_ you, soul and flesh alike. You take a timid step backward. He nods once more, then turns. Like that, he's gone.

[...]

You wander. You don't leave the Jungle entirely, but now the spores do not harm you. You find that out when a mushroom releases them into your face. But other than coating you in a cold sweat, the spores do nothing to you. 

So you wander, and wander, and feel yourself slipping away. Something about those eyes - and that true-sight of the God - something just... haunts you. As you walk for days, and days, and days, you realize you don't remember much of yourself. 

Your mind is clouded. Not with spores, but with the knowledge of Gods. Things no mortal should ever... 

You realize you're crying. You scrub away tears with filthy hands, smearing dirt across your cheeks. Your tears mix with the blood already on your face. You don't bother to wash up at all. What's the point? You'll die soon enough, anyway.

There's a gasp behind you. You stumble to a halt, and turn your head to stare at the woman. She wears brightly-colored clothes that you recognize of the Qykysus tribe. A mask is tied tightly around her mouth and nose, and there is a thin, wispy veil over her eyes. 

"Oh my god," she says, then races forward to catch you when you finally collapse. You think you've been walking for over a month. You're emaciated and filthy, and you just want to sleep.

Her hands are gentle, her arms soft. The sash she'd been carrying fruit in is quickly emptied. She tightens it around her shoulders and folds it around you. You close your eyes when she starts hurrying out of the Jungle.

You sleep.

[...]

You wake to voices that you can't understand, at first. It's a language different from the Trickster Tribe's chittering and clicking. When you open your third eye, you can... understand them.

"- know how she's alive. She must have been in there for so long... I wonder where her parents are."

Momma and Pa. You don't really... care about them, anymore. You know they won't miss you. It's a certainty; just as you know this new language that you've never before heard.

"-think she's awake."

You turn your head slightly to find you're on a cot, in a tent. The tent is patterned with triangles and is so full of colors that it surprises you. A woman - the same from before, but without the masks and veil - comes over and kneels down next to you. "Hey," she says softly, reaching up to brush hair back from your forehead. "It's good to see you awake. Are you hungry?"

You open your mouth, but no sounds come out. Through gestures, you manage to ask for water. Someone rushes to get some for you, but you only catch a glimpse of him. 

The woman looks kind. Crows feet mark the edge of her eyes, and there's a three-intersecting-arrow Mark on her left wrist. They point to the palm of her hand, which is wrinkled and somewhat thin. She's dressed differently than you last saw her, and lacks the facial coverings. Brushing back a long lock of brown hair, she says, "My name is Lydia Harris. This is my husband, Michael." She waves a hand back at the man, making you flinch. "My son Kevin just left to get you water."

You stare at her with a slight snarl, lips pulled back to reveal sharp teeth. They used to be blunt, but that's only a vague memory. She reaches to the right and a growl rips from your throat. Like that, you're scrambling backward, kicking yourself off the cot and darting under it. Their worried voices try to calm you, but when an outstretched hand reaches for you, you snap at it.

Kevin returns, then. He holds a large bucket but nearly drops it at the sight of you hidden under the cot and his parents trying to coax you out. His hair is dark brown, as well as his eyes, and he looks about the same age as you. He asks his mom something, but it's too quiet for you to make out over your growling.

Lydia and Michael get back to their feet, and the three of them gather at the tent flap for a moment to speak. Your eyes drop down to the bucket Kevin had left there. Making sure they are still occupied, you scramble out and grab it by the edge, then pull it under the cot with you. 

You plunge your head in to suck in greedy gulps, nearly coughing it back up when you surface to gasp for air. You pant for a moment, the third eye looking up to find that the three of them are all looking at you. That's when you see their Marks - glowing through their fabric. Michael's is on his throat. 

You shake your head and drink again, realizing you'd been so thirsty your lips had been cracked and bleeding.

Next was food. You glance around warily, finally taking stock in your surroundings other than the initial glance. There's another, larger, cot to your left, taking up a lot of the space in the tent. There are a few small woven boxes and packs. You eye them, but there's no smell of fruit there.

You look up at the voices. Lydia is kneeling in front of Kevin, and Michael has a hand on her shoulder. 

"-probably can't understand us. Go on and get some of the food from the community pool, okay? The others have agreed to help care for her." 

"Michael meets your eyes and you growl, hackles rising. Your new tail slaps against the floor angrily. He drops his eyes, though, and you settle, dominance clear. He's probably thirty years your senior, though. You hiss at him again when he tries to take a step nearer. "We're trying to help you," he says, slowly and calmly. As if you didn't understand- Hrm. Your hissing lessens.

"Food," you bark, and they all look surprised. Kevin, with both his mom and you prompting him to, goes to get some for you. Lydia and Michael are speaking, but you've lost interest, returning to the water bucket.

You finish out the water and tip the pot over, then roll it out from under the cot. Michael picks it up and leaves, along with Lydia. They keep talking as they go.

Left alone, you slowly crawl out from under your hiding spot. You glance around, then scuttle over to the packs and boxes. There's nothing of much interest in the packs other than clothes and necessities. You pull out a brush and frown at it, glancing down at your tattered and mangy hair. Running the bristles through your long black locks only causes pain, though. You toss it behind you toward the cot for later. You're partway through the third pack when Kevin comes back in. He stops short. "Uhh... That's not..."

You hiss at him and grab the bandanna from the pack you'd been rummaging through. You book it to the cot and slide underneath, hand darting out afterward to grab the brush. Kevin... laughs. "You can use that if you want, I won't take it from you."

With that, he sits down in the middle of the tent and sets out some fruit on a wooden board. You watch as he takes out a small pocket knife and starts skinning the fruit. your mouth waters as he sets out slices on the board then goes to the next piece. "You know, we were really worried you wouldn't make it. Everyone's wondering about you."

He pauses and looks up, smiling slightly. Kindly. You creep out slightly, still on your hands and feet. "Do you have a name?"

"Girl," you croak, throat not used to these strange mouth-sounds. He frowns at this, though. "That's not a name?"

"Not want one." Names are power. You taste ash on your tongue. "Names bad."

"I mean... Unless you go into the Jungle and give one of Them a nameless your own name, nothing could happen..." He shifts uncomfortably and pushes the board toward you slightly, taking a slice to munch on as he talks. "Besides, what do we call you? We can't just call you 'Girl'. That's just... cruel."

You think back to your Momma. Think about your Pa. And you creep out, and sit in front of him, and practically attack the board to eat. He flinches at your ravenous movements but doesn't run. Juice dripping down your throat and chin, you spit seeds out and say, "Name Girl. No other name."

"How about... How about Mijah?"

You freeze, and can practically feel the name sticking to your skin like honey. Tail lashing, you open your mouth to hiss at him, but stop. Mijah - the name tastes... Sweet. Cold, almost, like ice that you scoop from the tops of jungle trees. Tastes like Spores and fruit. You glance down to the meal he's given you and look back up at him.

And you nod. "Fine. Name Mijah."


	3. broken bones

Kevin is nice. So are Lydia and Michael, though you don't like them as much. Michael reminds you of Pa, but none of his actions and words match up. Maybe it's just because he's a male figure - hell if you know.

They both quickly take to calling you by your new name. You, Mijah, have a name. You don't like it. You didn't  _want_ a name, but Kevin had insisted. And any further attempts to make them just call you the nameless  _Girl_ , well those attempts don't get far before one of them shuts it down.

Two weeks into your stay (recovery) there, you finally feel strong enough to exit the tent. The colors immediately assault your ears and you flinch back, squinting in the light. You hadn't realized how  _bright_ it is outside of the Jungle.

Though, the Jungle is right there, not twenty feet from the camp. You marvel at the large net structures that keep out spores and animals alike. It's held up on large beams, with the netting strung over it. Kevin notices you looking and points up. "We use magic to hang the netting and put all the beams up. It's actually pretty easy to put up once there's a group of us working on it."

"Hm," you grunt, and that should be the end of the conversation but he continues.

"Over there is the communal pool. Food, supplies -- you can get a lot of stuff there, really. That's where we got your clothes, actually." You glance down at the loose garments and fiddle with the sash Lydia somehow managed to tie around your waist. It's lopsided, and the knot isn't neat, but you had struggled too much and this is the best she was able to do. You're already itching to pull it off. Kevin goes on, "The weavers make all the clothes, and we have gatherers, like mom. The rest of us help out whenever we can, as well. We, well, we don't have to do much until we get our Marks."

At the mention of Marks, you growl and he wisely changes the subject, waving you with him. You cast a glance back to Lydia and Michael - who you've started to lean on for decisions and support - then follow him. A crowd is starting to form, but a safe distance from you. Your skin prickles at their gazes and you're glad you covered your forehead. Your eyesight suffers from it, seeming to dull down even worse than it was before. But it's better than showing  _that_ off to everyone. You know for a fact your own Tribe wouldn't have liked it very much. You can't imagine how outsiders would react. Only Lydia, Michael and Kevin know. 

Tugging at the garments on you, you follow Kevin as he shows you around the small Tribe. Unlike yours, they're nomadic, and will probably pack up in another month or so. He says they move around sporadically, and there's not really any set time they leave. "All the men pretty much decide when to leave," he says as you manage to make him follow you to the edge of the netting.

When he realizes where the two of you are, he looks at you curiously. "What Tribe are you from? We're pretty close to the Edian tribe right now, but you don't really look like them. Black hair really isn't common there..." He trails off when you bend down to inspect the spikes holding the net down.

"We can't leave," he says, "Kids can't get too close to the Jungle, because the spores will... Hey, Mijah, we can't leave."

He grabs your hands when you try to pull out one of the stakes. You growl and yank your hands away, then heft your clothes and hurriedly walk away. He follows you to the other end of the large camp, and again stops you from escaping. You just want to  _leave_. Get away from the Jungle - away from Trickster.

"Here, I wanna introduce you to my friends." He pulls you along to the communal pool, where a couple of kids of varying ages sit and munch on their meals. They look up when the two of you approach. Kevin sits down and looks up at you, patting the ground next to him. "Mijah, this is Jane, Benny, and Carly."

Jane waves meekly and keeps her eyes locked on her bowl of soup. Benny is staring at you openly. And Carly keeps looking at you and looking away.

"Is it true that Kevin's mom found you in the Jungle?" Benny asks and you grimace at him. Despite your glare, he asks, "What was it like? Did the spores smell funny? Did you see any nameless?"

"I met god," you say and he laughs. Jane finally looks up at you, blue eyes wide. "Qykysus?" she asks quietly. You glower at her. 

"No." You don't say that Qykysus is dead. You don't want to cause outrage or anything. You're not stupid. Jane looks away and nods, seemingly too shy to ask anything else. Benny continues to pepper you with questions until you growl at him. Carly then speaks up. She seems older than the rest, maybe two years your senior. "You said you met a god. Which one? Is that how you lived?"

You stare at her, and stay silent. Some things need to be kept secret. 

Kevin seems to realize you don't want to socialize. He gets up and gestures for you to follow him. "Sorry, guys, I think Mom wants us home now."

Benny waves, but both Carly and Jane don't do much. Jane mumbles a goodbye into her food. You follow Kevin back to the tent. He looks like he wants to ask something, but holds off, seemingly considering what mood you're in. You're... grateful, for that. You don't want to talk about what happened. 

You don't think you should, either.

[...]

You can't get used to your new name. You don't  _want_ to. Whenever someone says it, half the time you don't even notice. The other half, you actively chose to ignore it. 

Now, for example. Michael is repeatedly calling you, chasing you around the camp. Apparently, girls can't go  _shirtless_ , which you find absolutely insulting. This tribe is nothing like your own.

"Mijah! Mijah, get back here,  _now_. Mijah!"

You chitter in laughter and tense your muscles. Tail going still, you swivel your ears backward to listen to him. He slows down, huffing and puffing, and says, "Good. Now... come here, Mijah."

When you chitter in more laughter, he realizes something's up. Like that, you whip around and  _leap_. You end up landing on his head and he curses. You crawl down to his shoulders, your tail wrapping around his upper arm to help steady yourself. You see your next target a few paces behind him, looking frazzled and tired. Lydia seems more prepared when you jump to her, and she holds steady. 

And that's when you realize you fell right into a trap. She reaches up with a net-like thing and covers you with it. Yowling like a feral animal, you writhe around until your head pokes out of it. She takes a step back, seeming proud of her work.

Sniffing and wrinkling your nose, you inspect the new covering. It's... very large. It drags around you like clouds, restricting your movements. There are no arm-holes, just one for your head. Its base color is dark purple, with many colorful patterns. It... matches your scales, you realize. Pinks and greens and blues, with bits of orange and yellow mixed in.

"Do you like it?"

You look up at her, brows drawing down. "Net?"

"No," she laughs, "It's a poncho. It's better than shirts, yeah?"

"Net," you insist, plucking at the fabric. You probably won't be getting used to this anytime soon. But she's right. It  _is_ better than a restrictive shirt. You'll trip over it, sure, but it's better than a shirt.

Later, Kevin finds you still plucking at the net-  _poncho_. You've tied it up to keep off the ground so you trip less. "Mom made it," he says, smiling slightly. You cast a sideways glance at him. "I, uh, gave her the idea, I think."

You're not sure what their word for gratitude is. That's the funny thing about knowing this new language. If you hear it, you know it, and you can remember it. But if you haven't heard it yet... So you growl a  _gratitude-appreciation-likeIt._ You look at Kevin, but the words are lost on him. He smiles anyway. 

"You know," he says after a bit of time of you not saying anything. "There's a gatherer group going to the river tomorrow. I'm going, and I think some time outside camp could be fun. Do you wanna go, as well?"

You briefly think back to the river in the Jungle, and its poisonous green and purple waters. You frown at him, but the curiosity gets the better of you and you nod. 

"Great," he says, and then points to the opposite side of the camp. "We all meet there at sunrise. I'll wake you up in time, don't worry."

You chur agreement and go back to fiddling with the poncho. It's the most he'll get out of you, and he seems to realize that. He bids you goodbye and leaves you to sit in the grass, looking out toward the jungle through the camp's spore-net.

And sitting there, alone, plucking up blades of grass and scattering them across your lap, you feel... Very alone. You don't want to go home, but you don't want to be here. There's an ache in your chest that you can't place.

You search the trees for any sign of golden antlers and soft scales and fine fur. But there's nothing, there. No extra clouds of spores, no glinting golden eyes, no python-like body dripping names from a hollow chest cavity.

You think nobody will ever understand you, as well as the trickster god does.

And for that, you cry.


End file.
